WHEN, SIX HOURS LATER IN NEW YORK, VICKI entered the large apartment she shared with five other Federal Airlines hostesses, she found the place a shambles. Furniture was piled up helter-skelter. Canvas covered parts of the floor, and paint buckets and stepladders were stacked in corners. A wave of turpentine-flavored air assailed her nose at the same time that a pounding rhythm of swing-and-sway music from the record player blasted in her ears.

“The lost is found!” Celia Trimble greeted her gaily. “The stranger has returned! Come in, stranger! We’re having a party!”

Vicki waved her hand around at the jumble of scaffolds, paint buckets, and stepladders. “What in the world ...?”

“We’re being painted, Vicki! At last, after two years of pestering the landlord, we’re finally67 being painted! And to honor this eventful occasion, we’re giving a party. You’re just in time.”

Vicki stepped over the piles of newspapers, brushes, buckets and paint-splattered overalls, and entered the apartment’s big living room. Apparently the painters hadn’t got this far, for the room seemed to be in a fair semblance of order. The rug, however, had been thrown back and two couples were dancing to the swing beat of the music. Dot Crowley was dancing with Pete Carmody, the newspaper reporter, and Jean Cox with Vicki’s former copilot, Dean Fletcher.

When the four spotted Vicki in the living-room doorway, Dean stopped in mid-step and led Jean over to her.

“Well, well,” he said. His tanned face split in a big grin. “How does my little ex-crew member like the sunny South?”

“It’s the greatest.” Vicki laughed.

“Then how come you haven’t got a Florida sun tan?”

“I’m working on it,” Vicki replied. She looked up at the tall flier. “But you’re tan enough for both of us.”

“This tan I got down in Mexico on my vacation,” Dean assured her proudly. “And you know what, Vicki? Remember that hidden valley we discovered down there? Darned if I68 didn’t find it again while I was flying around this time. And”—he grinned archly—“without you!”

“Impossible!”

“Look, you two,” Jean said. “Why don’t you dance while you talk? I’ll go help Mrs. Duff make the sandwiches.”

Dean Fletcher danced as well as he flew. And that, Vicki knew, was good.

“Think we’ll ever be assigned to the same crew again?” Vicki asked, as Dean whirled her around to the swing of the music.

“In this business”—Dean smiled—“you never can tell. But I have my fingers crossed. I miss you.”

At that moment the music stopped while the record player changed, and Pete Carmody came ambling over. The reporter was tall and thin, and unlike Dean Fletcher, his skin looked as if it hadn’t been exposed to the sun for years.

“Hi, Vic!” the reporter said. “We had a whale of a story on the wire today about Tampa. Aren’t you on that run?”

Vicki nodded her head.

“Was the story something about gold coins?”

“It was! Know anything about it?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Vicki said, crinkling up her mouth in mock unconcern, “except that my plane was carrying the gold.”

“What?” Pete almost shouted.

“Don’t get excited, Pete.” Vicki smiled. “My69 flight had the gold on board. We didn’t know it until we were questioned by the FBI at noon today. So I’m not what you’d call a news source.”

“I can see the headlines now,” Pete said. “Vicki Barr—famous airlines hostess and gold thief. Admits holding up plane carrying treasure in mid-air. Makes off with booty.” He stopped his kidding and grew serious. “No fooling, Vic. Do you know anything I could use?”

“Seriously, Pete,” Vicki said, “not a thing. I don’t know how much of a story your paper got, but I can tell you that the Tampa police—and the FBI—are up against what they admit is a blank wall.”

“You mean to say,” Pete asked, “that somebody just waved his magic wand and a chest of gold was changed to a chest of nuts and bolts?”

“Pete,” Vicki said, “that’s just exactly what it looks like.”

At that moment Mrs. Duff, the girls’ housekeeper, appeared with a heaping platter of sandwiches. She followed this with a steaming pot of coffee and a cool pitcher of milk.

After the supper was eaten and Mrs. Duff had cleared away the dishes, Pete Carmody got to his feet and clapped his hands for attention.

“We will now,” he proclaimed, “play charades. Miss Vicki Barr will captain one team and I will captain the other. Vicki, take your first choice of players.”

70 In the winter-crisp air of New York, and the informal atmosphere of the apartment which she shared with her friends, Vicki relaxed and gave her mind over to the problem of how to act out “A horse—a horse—my kingdom for a horse!”

But deep in her subconscious, like chips of wood in a whirlpool, names and people and things were churning themselves up and around and over and over—Joey’s flashlight, a slick Latin-type importer, a sick old man on an airplane, a restaurant in Ybor City, a tired-looking FBI man trying to solve a challenging case.

She was glad when the party broke up early and she could tumble into bed.

“Isn’t this turpentine smell awful?” Jean said as she turned out the light and pulled the covers up over her head.

“You won’t believe it, Jean,” Vicki said, “but it smells like oleander. And I wish it wouldn’t.”